Kinship
by Brisen
Summary: I was born in Azkaban... Following the death of her grandfather, the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange returns from France to live with her Malfoy relatives.
1. Chapter 1

**Kinship**

**Chapter One**

Lucius Malfoy apparated onto platform nine-and-three-quarters and glanced at his pocket watch. The Dover train would arrive in a minute, bringing with it this new addition to his household.

It was three weeks since he had learned of the death, in France, of Gustavus Lestrange, and the effectual orphaning of his wife's little niece. Some devilish impulse had led him to offer the child a place in his home, citing his duties as guardian in justification. It had caused an almighty row. Narcissa still wasn't speaking to him. He smiled thinly. Most decidedly, the affair had its advantages.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the approaching steam engine. He snapped his fingers; the house elf sprang forward, ready to deal with the luggage. A moment later and the train came whistling and steaming into the station.

There were few travellers on this damp summer's evening, and it was easy to identify his party. An elderly matron, cross and complaining, clambered awkwardly from the carriage, to be followed by a slender, dark-haired child who stood gazing about the platform with eyes as cold and grey as his own.

He strode forward, and the woman bustled up to him. "Ah, Mr Malfoy. It's very kind of you to meet us here, I'm sure. Miss Lestrange - _Miss Lestrange!_ Come over here and speak nicely to your uncle - oh, it's no use," she turned again to Lucius, "she doesn't speak a _word_ of English. A pretty time I've had of it, I can tell you, sir!"

All this had been uttered very nearly in one breath. Lucius murmured the usual platitudes, then turned to the child, who regarded him impassively. "_Enchanté de vous voir, ma chère. J'espère que vous serez très heureuse avec nous._"

The child replied promptly in excellent English. "Thank you, Monsieur Malfoy. It is most kind of you to offer me your protection… after so many years." Lucius didn't miss the malicious glance she cast in the direction of her chaperone, who was staring at her in open-mouthed indignation; but nor did he miss the slight inflection at the end of her sentence. His smile never slipped, but he wondered. How much did she know?

He held out a hand. The child took it, and he raised it to his lips, bowing over her to make up for the difference in height. She accepted this with equanimity; she had evidently been educated in the traditional courtesies. He then turned to the chaperone. "Thank you for your service, Mrs Venables. I think we need detain you no longer. I understand you have a further journey to make tomorrow, and I am sure you will wish to rest this evening. I will have your luggage sent directly to your room at the Leaky Cauldron. You may forward your bill to me at the Manor."

Having disembarrassed himself of the voluble Mrs Venables, Lucius slipped a hand into his waistcoat and drew out an old-fashioned guinea coin. He touched his wand to it. "Do you know what a Portkey is, Miss Lestrange?"

She nodded. "_Oui, monsieur_. But I have never travelled that way before," she added.

"Don't be frightened. You'll be at the Manor in an instant. And," he smiled down at her grave little face, "might I suggest that we adopt a less formal mode of address? We are family, after all. Will you not call me uncle - and permit me to call you Marie-Laurence? It is a charming name, my dear."

She bowed her head gracefully. "As you wish, _mon oncle_." At ten, she had the poise and assurance of a woman of thirty. He marvelled at her self-possession; he was, benevolently, amused by it; yet at the same time, he realised to his surprise that he was faintly disconcerted to find himself matched in dignity by this chit. As he extended his hand, with the Portkey, towards her, and watched her touch her finger carefully to the coin, he reflected that he would have been proud to see such bearing in his son.

**Chapter Two**

Dinner had drawn to a close at the Manor.

It had not been the most convivial of meals. Narcissa had been icy; the child, positively glacial. True, there had been one or two moments when Lucius thought he saw an expression of pain flicker over her sensitive lips, but for the most part, she had met his wife's scarcely veiled insults with frozen indifference. He enjoyed watching her. She was forged in the tradition of her ancestors: proud, magnificent. Perhaps time and familiarity would blunt her appeal, but for now, her presence added a keen, cool edge to the stultifying atmosphere of hearth and home.

When the house elves had cleared away the coffee cups, he invited his little niece to adjourn with him to his study. A private chat, he'd said, relishing the daggers in his wife's eyes.

He settled her in an armchair by the fire. "Brandy?" He indicated a decanter.

"_Oui, merci_." Just as if she had been drinking brandy from her cradle, he thought. And for all he knew, maybe she had. He watched her reflection in the mirror as he poured the drinks. For the first time, he noticed how tired she looked. The gloom of the study lent her face an almost ghostly pallor; her eyes were dark with exhaustion, and seemed unnaturally large. Unaware of his gaze, she huddled in the armchair, allowing her head to droop upon her hand. But when he turned towards her again, she had drawn herself up like a queen upon her throne.

He sat down opposite her on the other side of the fireplace. For a moment or two he watched the shifting patterns made by log and flame. He was aware that she was studying him. Finally he spoke. "My condolences on your recent loss. Were you close to your grandfather, Marie-Laurence?"

To his surprise the child stiffened. Slowly she shook her head. "I was not close to him, no. I saw him - how does one say it? - infrequently. He kept to his rooms. And I to mine." Her eyes flashed. "I do not grieve for him."

He refrained from pursuing the subject. Instead, "Then who brought you up, if not your grandfather?" he inquired. Then, seeing her puzzled expression, he recast his sentence: "_Tu étais élevé par qui?_"

Her brow cleared, though her eyes were still guarded. "That was Mimì. The oldest of the house elves. She was always good to me, _mon oncle_. But she remains in France. She is tied to the château, not to me. And she is old." The small girl sighed. "I do not think I will ever see her again."

"I see." Personally, he did not approve of children being brought up by house elves. Too often the elves spoiled them, seeing them as fellows in bondage and lavishing them with all the over-abundant adoration in their ridiculous nature. Such children failed to become acquainted with their own position, their dues and obligations. Some had a tendency to stoop to their inferiors; others never learned to respect their superiors. Some, lacking scope for emulation and competition, grew up lazy and self-satisfied and failed to fulfil their potential.

He leaned back in his chair. "You are no doubt aware that the death of your grandfather makes me your legal guardian. This means that I am responsible for all aspects of your wellbeing until you are of age - with the exception of your financial interests, which are in the hands of Nathaniel Proctor of Proctor and Quibble Solicitors. You will make your home with me. Your health, your education, and your social development lie with me.

"Now, while you live in my house there are rules I shall expect you to keep. I shall do my utmost to treat you with dignity and respect at all times; and in return, I expect you to treat both myself and my wife with the courtesy due to one's elders. However, I must also request you to remember your position with regard to the servants. Believe me, my dear, I am sorry you have had to part with your old nurse; but in our family, you will find that the house elves fulfil a purely menial role. You will only lower yourself by associating with them." His voice hardened. "Remember that you come of a long line of distinguished wizards. Do not disgrace yourself and your blood.

"There are a few more rules - not many - and I think it will be best if I explain them to you over the coming few days. For example, several rooms in the Manor are out of bounds - for good reason. You see, Marie-Laurence, I have amassed quite a collection of Dark Arts materials over the years. Many are dangerous, and none are suitable objects for childish curiosity. You must not touch them, or meddle with them in any way, without my express permission. In a few days my son, Draco, will be coming home. I hope you will be good for him - and him for you. He is rather more than two years older than you, but you will find that exactly the same rules apply to him. Should your conduct lapse in any way, I will administer such punishment as I see fit."

He paused, allowing the vagueness of the threat time to reverberate. This technique had always made an impression on Draco; Lucius himself had been impressed, for that matter, when his own father had used it on him, many years ago. It was, however, with a feeling somewhere between irritation and curiosity that he realised it had little visible effect on this strange, self-sufficient little person. Throughout the earlier part of his lecture she had eyed him impassively. But when he had spoken of the Dark Arts, he fancied he saw a subtle change come over her face. He wondered. Was it merely a trick of the dancing firelight? Or had there been something akin to mockery in those dark grey eyes?

Still she regarded him steadily. He realised, with unwilling admiration, that she was waiting for him to speak. Forcing him to make the next move. Unless, of course - unless she hadn't understood what he was saying? It was possible. English was not her native tongue. Had he spoken over her head? He raised his voice. "Do you understand me, Marie-Laurence?"

"_Oui, monsieur_." Nothing more.

He tried again, impatience edging his tones. "And is there anything you would like to say to me?"

Her response was immediate. "Yes. If you please, I should like you to tell me about my mother."

For a moment Lucius was silent. He was conscious of a vague feeling of disappointment. He had hoped she would be free of this type of sentimentality. But on the other hand, perhaps it was only natural. He traced a contemplative finger along the line of his jaw. The girl came of a noble line of wizards: powerful wizards, passionate wizards, wizards who understood - understood too well - the dreadful strength of family bonds. Her mother had loved and hated to the point of madness. Small blame, then, to her daughter, if, deprived thus far of an object worthy of her love, she projected it onto this mother she had never known. And never would.

He took a mouthful of brandy and savoured it, enjoying the passage of the bitter richness in his throat. Finally: "What do you wish to know?" he asked.

The child twisted her hands in her lap. For the first time, her self-control wavered. "Have you - seen her?" she demanded. "Does she remember me?" Then, with an effort: "Will they - will they ever - let me see her?"

Lucius sighed. "What do you know of your mother, Marie-Laurence? What do you know of your past?"

She shrugged - a would-be casual gesture, but her eyes were eager. "Little - but very little. My mother was Bellatrix Lestrange. Before she was married, she was Bellatrix Black. Your wife is her sister. My mother was a devoted follower of the Dark Lord. When he fell, she was imprisoned - in Azkaban." Her voice darkened. "I was born in Azkaban. I do not remember it."

He glanced at her thoughtfully. "And your father?"

But the mask had fallen once more across her face. "As to my father, _monsieur_, I know nothing."

And as he looked into the grey eyes so like his own, Lucius knew that she lied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Three**

_There is nothing but the darkness, and the dripping of the rain against my window, relentless, like a finger tapping out a sinister message on the pane. _

_So. It is late. I am somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. _

_I had not expected it to be as it is. What does he want of me, that he should seem so - so - _

_But I cannot find the word. I thought for a moment, "so kind," but no - he is not a kind man, not him. But so far, at least, he is polite; and that I did not expect._

_It will be raining in England, Mimí said; and she was right. In England, there is nothing but mists and rain. England. Mother's land. Shall I ever see her? Does she think of me, in some dark dream?_

_My aunt. Narcissa. She hates me. I should have expected nothing else; but I didn't think she knew. I thought perhaps she persuaded him to take me - for my mother's sake. _

_Because he never wanted me before. _

_I hate him! I hate him, and I do not understand. Does he find it amusing, to throw away and pick up at a whim? How does he think I've been living, all these invisible years? Did he even remember, or care, that I existed? With my grandfather, it was drunkenness: an old man, liver-spotted, brandy-soaked, cruelty-sodden. But him - _

_Narcissa is not important, and my grandfather - my grandfather is dead._

_But he is like a velvet glove that bruises with the lightest touch._

_I looked in the mirror for a long while tonight, trying to decide if we resemble each other._

_For every hurt that I receive, I shall repay it tenfold._

_And the raindrops on the window are like the footfalls of the memories that stalk us through our nights and days._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Four**

For the thirteenth time, Lucius drove his fist into the study wall. Several pieces of plaster flew across the room.

Damn Bellatrix. Damn her child. Damn Gustavus for so inconsiderately dying. And damn, for that matter, Draco, who was coming home for the holidays today, and Narcissa, for inviting his two boorish friends to stay.

The child knew. He didn't know how - even Gustavus had never known - but somehow she knew. Of that he was certain. And, rather than come straight out and ask about it, like any normal child would, she seemed to delight in taunting both himself and his wife with hints about her paternity. Perverse little bitch. Mind you, Narcissa wasn't helping. Not that he'd really expected it, but she ought to have the sense to keep her mouth shut.

The climax had come this morning at breakfast. Narcissa had been holding forth about Draco: his prowess on the Quidditch pitch; his brilliance (as she fondly looked on it) in the potions laboratory; the glittering career assured him by his talents and birth. She had rounded it off with a glowing paean on his Malfoy good looks and - in particular - his striking resemblance to Lucius. "His parentage is stamped in his face for all to see. There could certainly be no question about _his_ lineage," she finished nastily.

Marie-Laurence turned deliberately in her chair to study the portrait of Draco that adorned the sideboard. "There is a certain resemblance, _ma tante_," she said calmly. "But myself, I think it is not so marked as one might at first believe. There is a similarity of colouring, yes; but I see a weakness in your son about the mouth and chin that I think does not come from his father. And as to the eyes - my own, I think, are more like my uncle's than your son's are." And she took another sip of tea.

Narcissa had stormed out of the breakfast room without another word, while Lucius ordered his new charge off to her room until she could learn to treat her elders with the appropriate respect.

"As you wish - _mon oncle_," she replied. And removed herself, gracefully, leaving him to fume over her _sang froid_ and his wife's damnable indiscretion.

He slammed his fist into the wall another four times, sending cracks spidering across the plasterwork and half a brick crashing to the floor. He had already seen Narcissa and impressed upon her the necessity for silence. She had been sullen, furious, but she would respect his wishes. She knew - knew too well - the alternative. As to the child… he would have to talk to her, and the conversation could hardly fail to be anything but difficult. He sighed. He remembered her birth - remembered it in infinitely greater, more painful detail than he recalled the birth of his son. As his sister-in-law's most senior surviving relative he had waited outside the cell to take delivery of the baby - who would, in all probability, be born dead. No one expected a foetus to survive those months in Azkaban. But Bellatrix was strong. She had been one of the most heavily guarded prisoners in the fortress, but she carried the child to term. Proud even in her agony, she had refused the help of the midwife sent by the Ministry. He could still hear her oaths, her screams, the sound of her long, broken nails clawing at the floor. It seemed to go on for ever. Lucius was well-versed in pain. He could look on suffering with equanimity - more, enjoyment - but here, in this place, all barriers broke down. At last, the child had been born: a pitiful specimen, but - miraculously - alive. And Bella, in her madness, had cursed it.

Pausing only to name the infant, he'd packed her off to France to live with her putative grandparents; and there, he had thought, she would remain. But now, ten years later, Gustavus Lestrange was dead, and the responsibility finally fell to him. It might, perhaps, have been easier to have her fostered by some wizarding family in France; but people would have wondered. Gossiped. Better to do the decent thing in the eyes of the world, and take his unfortunate 'niece' into his home. And so long as Narcissa kept quiet, no one need guess the truth.

Meanwhile he had punched a sizeable hole in his study wall. He reached for his wand. "_Reparo_."


End file.
